[i]> You get headaches?

"Of varying severity. Yes."

> And that's why your God is full of all this weird stuff?

"A mechanism of control."

> Sorry you have to deal with that. But hey, have you thought about taking control of them, instead? 

"...What?"

> Oh. Pain is an incredible focus tool. If you subjected yourself to it on purpose, you might be able to overcome the vertigo you were describing.

"Why? To what purpose? My system works fine. Superior."

> Sure sure, if you say so. But you can never have too many swords, right?[/i]

They'd fought until neither of them could stand, that day. And collapsed into each other's arms like never before that night. Mirror never made any indication that the incident had meant anything to her for the rest of her imprisonment. She never even acknowledged that it had happened, actually. 

But she'd spent a frankly dangerous number of hours post-freedom wearing a full-mesh suit running simulated cockpits, letting the overwhelming sensations wash over her until they felt like something approaching an epiphany, until she was a creature of sweat and panting and nothing more, until she had to be carried out and carefully lowered into a pool until her body temperature returned to a safe level. Again. And again. And again.

And it [i]did[/i] become a sword. And for the first time since the forging, she draws it. Sense of self. Sense of body. The opposite end of the philosophy that Solarel subscribed to. She piloted mecha as an opportunity to turn herself into something else completely, metamorphosing into a giant of metals and unlimited power. But Mirror could not swim in those waters. Thus, her answer: total awareness of her mortal self, using the discomfort of the sensations being pushed into her as a measuring stick. 

It is not magic. But if she is aware of how much her head is throbbing, she knows where it is and what it's shaped like, no matter what her other senses try to say. If she is aware of the crawling sensation in her arm, she knows how long it is. From there, extrapolation. Her body, her build, her measurements as mantra. All that's left is finding one single detail inside her environment that will let her reliably measure it relative to herself.

She finds it in the circle. Or rather, in the flickering of the space around the circle, where Smokeless Jade Fires can't decide quickly enough what kinds of details to impart. In between the flashes of fire, of glittering treasures, of smoke, of deep jungle and pounding drum, in between each flicker is a tiny glimpse of a single interior panel. The sort of thing used for mechanics to check or alter cockpit cooling systems. Standard in every mecha these days, even Mirror's. 

And with that, she knows the size of the circle. And the size of the circle tells her the size of the cockpit, because this is the control rig where a pilot is given just enough room to move about with her full range of motion to guide her machine in the natural sort of way that's meant to be the advantage of these systems. It must have been shaped to match normal perceptions so that an inexperienced pilot wouldn't get thrown out of the simulation when she noticed anything amiss. Stay in the circle in here, stay inside in the living world. And if that is true, she knows how much space she occupies inside this mental plane. 

She is in command of herself. Command of self is command of space. Command of space means...

Mirror is not a goddess, whatever theories Trosta might have about her. She is not a powerful or especially complex Pattern with mastery over real-time virtual data sets, either. Smokeless Jade Fires, whether both of these things or neither, remains the entity in charge of what is shown. But if she is a God, she is a God inside a machine. And she hungers for the touch of a living girl. She demands her synthweave send feelings in both directions. This is the shape of the blade that dooms her. Never the control spike in the first place, but her own expectations. 

If she is such-and-such a size, and her environment is this-and-that a size, the two must meet. The space that Mirror occupies is non-negotiable. She bares her fangs, a gesture of pain and not fury, but it's a weapon just the same. If all these things are true, and she cannot alter the world inside this cockpit, then its perception of [i]her[/i] must flip, instead.

Mirror grows. She surges into the air until she towers against the temple walls and dwarfs the idol of Smokeless Jade Fires. She is an impossible thing, as inevitable and inexorable as Grandmother Night. Her fishtail dress flutters in the breeze, dancing madly with every tiny swish of her hips that accompany the thundercrack of her tail. 

She acknowledges your power, Smokeless Jade Fires. But if you wanted a doll to channel yourself into, you ought not to have asked her to come to you as a pilot. 

"You will," she says with amusement, "Make yourself smaller. Smokeless Jade Fires. Small enough to fit in here with me. Small enough not to interfere. Disobey, and you will be smaller still, if I have to drag you through the Seven Gates myself and let the curse of [Fang and Soil] take you until you fit inside my palm. But you will not disobey, will you Little Goddess?"

Mirror's watery eyes are like lakes, reflecting fire and moonlight in their surface. Her smile is confidence itself. She squeezes her own arm, to keep oriented within the sudden burst of static.

"You wish to taste victory, Smokeless Jade Fires. You, powerful but young, want [i]guidance[/i]. And I will give this to you, exactly as contracted. I have come as a pilot, Little Goddess. You, dear mecha, are to be piloted. I will share with you the secrets of my skill. You will provide what I require. Indeed, only you can. And in exchange, you will never breathe a word of what you see and feel to anyone. And in exchange, I will move your body for you, in ways you have never dreamed possible. In short, we will dance. And then we will feast. And then, drunk on victory, we will kiss.

"If. Little Goddess. You are a Good Girl. Will you do this for me? Or must I. Punish. You?"